HELL, and back
by canadianscanget
Summary: 03.10 vortex. So many quick to judge, to lay blame at Neal's feet, with not a thought about... some violence, language, gritty at points. Stressed - Minds, Motives, and Friendships.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, I couldn't help it. The vortex of the finale pulled me in.

PICKS UP AT THE END OF 03.10 - O3 because I'm really optimistic for multiple seasons.  
>No beta, errors are my own, but thankfully I did get nudged a couple of times by Swanpride. Thanks.<p>

How we deal with the stress points in life, effects not only ourselves but those around us.  
>Peter's auditory and visual experience on entering his home with El kidnapped. The forlorn, sickening expression and mournful "He took my wife." Followed by Neal's own agonized expression. Brought my thoughts to where Neal's and Peter's lives have crossed and their response to stress points.<p>

Enjoy!

So many quick to judgement, to lay blame at Neal's feet without at a single thought about ...

* * *

><p>"We're done Neal. Do you understand me. Done!"<p>

Peter motioned Diana over, gave her whispered directions, while she kept a trained eye on Neal  
>Her face concerned, then angry. She walked to Neal and with a calm, professional restraint, motioned for him to turn around.<p>

Neal glanced over her shoulder at Peter.  
>Peter shook his head, stolid, closed his eyes and turned back to the chaos of his nightmare.<p>

Diana pulled Neal around. He brought his hands compliantly behind his back. He closed his eyes. He tried in vain to steady his breaths, his pounding heart and uncooperative body. A body that trembled and shuddered and stood on leaden legs. Legs that threatened to falter under the ominous weight pressing down on him.

Diana tried ever tactic she knew. From kind words to outright threats. Still, Neal sat unresponsive in the interrogation room. It wasn't the glass fronted FBI rooms for interviewing witnesses and cooperative suspects. No, this one was further down the corridor with no glass, just cold, barren, harshness – a sound proof door and walls, that made the room feel claustrophobic, tight, with warm stale air circulating through a small vent high above. The table and chairs were hard, unwelcoming, in bleak grey laminate and vinyl. The grey and black flecked carpet failed to hide it's wear and long held stains.

Neal's relentless gaze remained on his hands, held loosely in his lap, palms up. He was oblivious to the room, to Diana's voice and movements. All he could see was Peter's face. All he could hear was Peter's voice echoing through his existence _'He took my wife.' 'We're done.' _

All Neal wanted was to tell Peter the truth.

Neal had droned out a single word in the hour and some odd minutes at the FBI with Diana, "Peter."

Diana knew the precious amount of time they had to find Elizabeth Burke, alive. Neal's cooperation was paramount, he was the integral key. Peter knew that and would have to resign himself to the unwanted contact with the conman he had once reverently called friend. Diana knew they would have to step over the boundaries of non-involvement with personal incidents. Everything was too close to home.

Jones brought Peter.

Peter, who's every breath seemed hollow, every movement forced, yet his eyes glared with a hostile intensity that threatened to burn into anyone who dared meet them.

Diana dared.

She placed a hand on his chest, felt his heart racing, his chest rising in an uncharacteristic, shaky heave.  
>"You need his cooperation Peter." She paused to ensure he'd heard her, then her lips curved ever so slightly. "No strangling the suspect. Okay."<p>

Peter gave her a fleeting twitch of his own mouth, "Thanks Diana."

Peter inhaled an unsteady breath and let a smooth, controlled one slowly escape. He pushed the door open to the interrogation room, the fluorescent lights casting an unnatural glare. Their quiet humming seemed deafening in the sound proof reverberation of the small room. Neal remained stock-still – head down, shoulders slumped, hands held in his lap. A cold, carved statue of his own creation: Expensive, elegant, fit to adorn the foyer of any elite art gallery, and completely devoid of life - uncaring, unfeeling, unseeing - never to be held or loved.

Peter forcefully thumped both hands onto the table and loomed over Neal.

"Why?" He ground into Neal's face.

Neal flinched. His body trembled with a cold anguish.

"Why?" Closer, guttural, and filed with hostility.

Neal fought to find his voice. He wet his lips.

Peter placed a solid hand on the backrest of Neal's chair and the other slammed down in a fist onto the table. The impact caused the table, bolted solidly to the floor, to bounce.

"Please?" Neal whispered.

"Please? Please? You want something from me? I have nothing to give you Neal. _N o t h i n g._ Not my time. Not my help. And, definitely not my friendship. _ N o t h i n g._" Peter spat the last _nothing_ out with a cold deliberate slowness.

"Peter." It was a soft, forlorn supplication.

"NO!"

"Peter. Please, I..."

"No, Neal. No lies. No conversation." Peter shook his head. "All I want is to know where the damn treasure is. I want my wife back.

"NOW, Neal. Tell me NOW!"

The heat of Peter's breath touched Neal's face. It stung. Scornful eyes dug into him. Neal's vision narrowed. He wanted desperately to meet those brown eyes, to tell Peter the truth. His body refused to obey. He shook uncontrollably. His breaths arrived in rasps. His throat constricted and threatened to close.

His vision blurred, darkened and burst with grotesque images long suppressed.

"_NOW "_

_Angry hands grasped him, pounded into him._

_His arms flailed out. _

_Trying to gain balance, while fighting an unyielding foe._

_He slammed against a wall. _

_His head ached and blood poured from his nose. _

_The metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. _

_He gagged and spluttered trying to clear his throat._

_A raging, baleful voice screamed at him. _

_Threatened, then carried out the threats._

_His vision blurred, darkened._

_He swam through murkiness, struggling to breach the surface._

"STOP!" Neal had yelled with a penetrating shrillness before covering his head and sliding under the table, his chair flying backwards.

"Neal!" Peter's calloused composure slipped into alarm. He peered under the table at a quaking man, his breath's gagging, eye's unfocused. The slightest touch of Peter's hand sent legs kicking and scrambling until they pushed into the nearest wall. "Neal?"

Panicked "No"s were all that met Peter.

Diana and Jones had rushed in but Peter waved them out, asking for stillness, quiet.

Peter had seen this first hand only once before with a retired police officer. The man had barracked himself into his house and was prepared to fight anyone trying to overtake his domain. He'd been at Ground Zero, experienced the death and chaos first hand. A few years later he retired and slowly his social network and support system fell away from him, when his wife divorced him the trauma he'd survived returned full force. Watching a person lost to reality and furtively fighting a none-existent enemy required a great deal of calm and attention to detail to ensure everyone's safety.

Peter moved closer to Neal speaking softly, reassuring him. Neal's eyes remained focused on a distant past. His body responding to a violent threat - his hands braced protectively over his head, his feet pushing him tight against the wall, breaths short and gasping. Peter waited patiently, until the breaths calmed, the muscles relaxed and the distressed young man in front of him clung to the wall, face pressed into it, spent.

"Neal."

A shudder ran through Neal. Peter moved closer and touched his knee lightly. He flinched but didn't pull away. Peter moved closer, squeezed his knee tightly, then put a hand on his shoulder.

"Neal." Peter tried again.

Neal mumbled something unintelligible. Then inhaled sharply in an effort to fill his starved lungs with precious air. Peter gently pulled Neal from the wall. He trembled, his chest heaving with an despondent heaviness, sweat beading across his forehead. His eyes searched for focus, for familiarity, for reality.

"Hey, buddy. Come on, you're safe. Everyone's safe."

Peter wasn't sure what or who the trauma extended too. He figured Kate and the explosion was a good bet but Neal seemed bent on escape, yet with Kate he'd run to her, even if that meant being engulfed in flames.

"Come on Neal, I'm right here you're safe now."

Eyes blinked back into reality and as quickly shut tight.

"Oh. God. Oh, God." Neal shook his head, then pulled away from Peter. He sat knees up with his head pushed into them and arms wrapped tightly over his head. He rocked back-and-forth for several minutes. Mumbling softly, almost chanting to himself. Finally, he pressed his back against the wall and lifted his head and banged it solidly against the wall a couple of times.

"Neal. Stop it." Peter implored.

Neal caught his breath and peered sideways at Peter. "I'm... Shit."

"It's happened before?"

Neal gave a slight nod yes.

"Kate?"

Neal shrugged. "Started after."

"In prison? There was nothing in the release reports."

Neal stared directly at Peter. The concern in those brown eyes, almost broke him. He sighed deeply. "I lie Peter. So well, sometimes I forget I'm lying to myself too."

A thin wry smile crept across Peter's face.

"What?" Neal regarded the wet hand, he'd just wiped across his eyes, like it was some foreign, disconnected object.

Peter chortled softly. "You just admitted that you lie to yourself. Not deceiving, misdirecting, conning. Outright lie."

"And that's a good thing?" Neal quipped.

"Admitting it, is."

Peter eased himself next to Neal with his stance mimicking Neal's perfectly. Besides, his legs had been numbing in the squat he held while waiting patiently for Neal to pull back to reality.

"So, you didn't speak with anyone after..."

"I did. I was _required_ too. Once a week with a shrink. Twice a week with a counsellor."

"They never diagnosed you with Post-traumatic Stress?"

Neal shook his head. "Nah. I don't have any _significant impairment in social or job functioning_."

"Uhhh, no. I guess not. But you had flashbacks? They never caught any in prison?"

"No, not really. _They_ called it _'Acute Stress - a response to a traumatic life event_.' Kept shifting. One minute you're angry, then depressed, then confused, agitated, anxious – like no one ever experienced any of that just being in prison – it was supposed to _resolve rapidly_, within weeks. It did, as far as anyone asking was concerned."

"No flashbacks."

"Maybe. One got dismissed due to the situation."

"The situation?"

"Someone pissed off with me."

"Ah."

"Yeah. Never thought of that one before. Never bothered me again. Think he was embarrassed."

"And you weren't?"

Neal cringed, "No. I got dragged away, which didn't help things."

"Dragged away. The way I dragged you away from the plane? From Kate?"

"Peter." Neal exhaled with a shiver, "I don't ... didn't really ... remember. ... I kept trying to fill in the blanks. You held something out to me. It was hot. Then bright white and orange. Replaced by garish orange jumpsuits. ... I wasn't ... at first maybe, ... I never escaped, ... maybe no u... _partnership,_ ever happened. Then bits and pieces started returning but I only wanted to hold onto ... the image of her face, ... to her."

_All Neal wanted. All he wanted. To hold onto her._ Peter clenched his jaw and fought the threatening wave of nausea. _To__ hold onto her. Even if only for one fleeting moment, to touch, to smell, to drink her in, to know her in every possible way. And, that was it, Neal would always have run to Kate, never away._

"This flashback wasn't about the explosion?" Peter's question was pointed.

Neal twisted his head until he met Peter's intense gaze. He sighed, wet his lips and shut his eyes. "No."

Peter turned his head forward, then stared up at the ceiling. "Neal." He paused again and stole a sideways glance at the young con. He looked pensive, shaky and on the edge of unravelling. "I can't deal with this right now."

"I know. I didn't ... I made a choice..." Neal's breath caught. "Whatever you want, I'll do."

"Do you have the treasure?" Peter voice was tentative.

Neal bit his bottom lip. He knew the question was coming, it was the answer that was going to be agony.

"No." Neal finally managed.

Peter shifted around and glared at him.

"I don't have it ... now."

"What?" Peter's anger rose again.

"Peter, please." Neal implored, a hand rising defensively.

Peter saw the anguish, the fear behind those crystal blue eyes and checked his anger.

"Where is it Neal?"

Neal rocked his head, his eyes pressed shut. "Peter, I wanted it, all the treasure. All the possibilities, all the dreams, but ..."

"But what?" Peter pressed.

Neal looked around at Peter, trying to find the words, "It ... It takes... It took Kate... It tried to take me. It took Moz ... and now..."

"El." The desolation and exhaustion in Peter tumbled out. It was the first time he'd spoken her name since his _beautiful, loving, everything Elizabeth_ had been stolen from him, it ached. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Neal, we need the treasure."

_We_. Such a small word with the incredible power of inclusion and unity. _We_. Neal pressed his hands into his face and rubbed at his eyes and bridge of his nose before clasping them, almost in prayer, under his chin. "We don't have much time."

"Like I don't know that?"

"No." Neal faced Peter, the hostility still evident in deep brown eyes swimming in red pools. Neal had to make him understand before everything transformed into a tumultuous disturbance again. He hadn't been caught in a lie, he'd been trapped in one. Trying desperately to protect Mozzie. To keep his fragile world intact.

"I didn't lie to you Peter, I didn't have the treasure when I told you to prove it."

"You lied to me." Peter persisted.

"No. No, I lied to myself. You proved to me ..." Neal swallowed, his mouth felt dry, exhaustion threatening to overtake him, "You proved to me I already had found _treasure_, a true one."

Peter's eyes flickered. He'd maintained a steady, unwavering eye contact with Neal. He wasn't about to let Neal get away with anything at this moment. There was literally too much at stake.

"I'm not sure when it happened, when the realization started to sink in, maybe the bridge ... in the room ... with Diana. I ... "

Peter wasn't sure if Neal was drifting from reality again. A psychotic break would end any chances for recovering the treasure within the time frame Keller set.

"Neal. Where's the treasure?" Peter cut in softly.

"Right before my eyes, where it's always been ...not streaming on a computer ..."

"Time Neal, time." Peter prompted hoping to keep him fixed to reality without pushing.

"Peter." Neal decided to put it into his own frame of reference, "Art is an imitation of life, no matter how exquisite it pales in comparison. All the master pieces, their value revolves around the providence – who owned it, who or what it was of, who touched it, who painted it - those paintings are priceless because of the life around the painting. The art is a glance into past lives, a moment reflected in time by paint and canvas, by stone and chisel, by clay and fire."

The passion was so strong in Neal's voice, Peter still wasn't sure where he was headed with this. His own head spun with thoughts and visions and scenarios, all disastrous. He needed Neal to stay with him.

"Treasure. Time." Peter whispered.

"Peter. The greatest painting is life itself." Intense blue eyes held onto brown. "And, the value... the richness, is in who you experience it with, who you share it with."

Peter's field of vision narrowed, darkened.

"You proved that to me Peter. You shared with me." Neal breathed heavy, trying to force air into tight lungs. He shifted to face Peter square on.

Peter's eyes had clouded. They no longer focused on him. No longer burnt intensely into him. He was dazed, caught in another moment.

"Life itself." Peter murmured, tears streaming down his face.

Neal reached out and laid a hand lightly on Peter's shoulder. Peter remained fixed, eyes glazed. Neal knew the only eyes Peter had were for Elizabeth. He knew the overwhelming despair that crept unwanted into his own existence. How often he'd envisioned Kate's face disappearing into flames. How many nights he'd woken in cold sweats, his hands empty and aching from unavailing attempts to cling to her. He wouldn't let that happen to Peter.

"Peter?"

No response. Neal sidled closer, until shoulders pressed together. Neal felt the trembling of the man next to him, his partner, his friend. He felt a head ease onto his shoulder and tears soak into his shirt.

Eventually, quietly he raised a hand up and beckoned. The door eased open, eased shut and opened again. Diana handed Neal the pen and paper. He scribbled several things down and handed it back to her.

Diana nodded, then stared at Neal, and whispered, "We'll get them back."

* * *

><p>It was supposed to be a "one shot" because it wouldn't get out of my head so I could concentrate on other writing and such. But I'm getting nudged, okay punched in the shoulder, that I can't leave it here.<p>

El gets rescued. Keller gets his comeupance.

Besides there are other goods one's out there about El's rescue and I'm sure Jeff Eastin and his writers, cast and crew, have one too. Well they better have! Thanks to them, and USANetwork, again for allowing us these diversions and letting us play with their characters. (Check out Rainey13 -Sometimes You Have to Pay ). Cheers! CCG


	2. Chapter 2

PREVIOUSLY: Peter and Neal are in a back interview room at the FBI just after El is kidnapped.

Enjoy! (The third and final chapter is nearly set to follow too).

* * *

><p>Diana scanned through the list on the note pad.<p>

The first request brought Neal his cell phone. He popped the back open, twisted something inside around, closed it and entered a lengthy pass code into the cell.

"If you considering what Tech Crimes could get off it, don't bother. Secured à la _paranoid, conspiracy theory tech genius_. Besides it only contains numbers, you need what's in my head to go with it."

Neal scrolled through the numbers selecting several and then keyed in a message and hit send. He did the same thing a second time but with a longer message. Then he held up the phone for Diana.

She waved a hand at him, "No, it'll be easier if you hang onto it."

Neal nodded at her with a somber smile.

His movement roused the man still leaning heavy on his shoulder.

"Can't find her. Have to find her." Peter murmured.

Diana moved forward, ready to offer some relief for the awkward position that Neal held, on the floor of the back interview room, with her boss still tightly pressed against him.

"It's okay, Diana." Neal assured before she could speak. "Not going anywhere. Give him the time. His brain will process everything through soon enough."

Diana had squatted down and looked between the two men. It was hard for her to see Neal Caffrey as anything but what he was right then and there, a friend to her boss, to Peter.

"We're okay Diana." Neal whispered, then a twinkle danced into his eyes, "Besides, Mozzie thinks I have Stockholm Syndrome, so _I can't possibly leave."_

She huffed, nodded agreement and rouse to complete the rest of the tasks on Neal's list.

She updated Jones and Hughes with specific requests to each of them. Hughes wasn't overly happy to start with but agreed, muttering something about _'Unusual circumstances warrant unusual responses.' _ She was sure he'd said something about unusual people too.

Diane then sent out twelve text with the same three words – _Keller has El_. She had a response surprisingly fast and sent the rest of the message Neal had provided. She only needed one text this time.

The rest of the list was checks and balances and a couple of _what ifs_ that she'd have to look after as things progressed. She had one more call to make that wasn't on Neal's list. She called Christie and asked her to call a favour in. Within an hour Christie's friend and colleague, Dr. Shan Zaidi, had found his way into the FBI and to the back interview room. Shan had honed his skills over the last ten years. Starting with 9/11, when he had walked straight out of a four-year residency in Psychiatry and into the aftermath of the Twin Towers.

Shan sat on the floor in front of Neal and Peter, legs crossed, his head perched on clasped hands atop arms that rested on his knees. He had checked Peter briefly, then spent most of the time speaking with Neal. When Peter finally started reconnecting to the world around him, albeit rather disoriented at first, Shan had remained with him, while Neal quietly exited to help Diana. Peter reluctantly agreed to a once over and was prescribed something mild, along with assurances that his acute stress symptoms would likely dissipate over the next few days, if not hours. Shan was quick to note, that police officers were typically resilient when it came to dealing with traumas, but Peter need to allow himself some leeway. His judgement might be off, driving was out, firearms were definitely out, relying on others was highly recommended, and talking was a necessity. Shan provided a work and cell number, just in case. He patted Peter on the shoulder.

"You'll be good, you have good friends around you." He offered in parting.

Hours had passed but things remained a blur for Peter. He went through the motions, asked the right questions, nodded his head in resolute silence, and stared off into space until someone asked him another question or directed him to do something. He had no recollection of how he'd ended up at work. He was at home one minute and the next at work, as if by the snap of fingers. He kept getting flashes of his house. What was missing? Everything was out of place, rearranged in an obscure Machiavellian fashion. Diana and Jones seemed to have moved with him in a bizarre juxtaposition. Neal. Neal was in both places, with agonizingly penitent eyes, calling his name.

Peter could feel his anger rising as he flashed back to that moment. God, he'd been such a fool. What was the saying about wool and eyes and closest people to you or was that keep your friends closer and enemies even closer. Yep, he'd kept Neal close and Neal had proved himself to be just exactly what he was, a con-artist, nothing more than a low life dressed in borrowed Devour suits and silk ties, flashing a fake smile. Opportunistic and conniving in the same breath. Not worthy of ever being called a friend and partner. Damn! How could he have let this happen? How could he open the door and let Neal snake his way into his home, his life , his... No, No he couldn't care not right now. The only person he should be thinking about was El. He felt nauseous again, dizzy from to many rampant, disconnected thoughts in his head.

"Peter. Peter?" It was Clinton. He held out a bottle of water and two small tablets. "They're from Dr. Zaidi. You remember, said they'd help calm things down, nothing to strong."

Jones nodded reassuringly, but Peter's quizzical look remained firmly plastered on his face.

"It's okay Peter, you're supposed to take them." He tipped the pills into Peter's open hand and gave him the bottle of water.

"What's the latest?"

"Everything is coming together. Keller's directions were followed to the letter."

"The treasure?"

"Diana's got the details looked after with Neal. Worked it all out so that..." Jones trailed off with the scowl that had grown to outright anger on Peter's face. "Peter, we need Neal for this. We need you to work with him. Keller demanded you be at the drop, remember."

Peter found himself nodding in agreement.

They soon headed to his house in part to retrieve clothing appropriate for delivering the treasure and taking Keller down, _Peter liked the take down part_, but also as a means for Peter to address some of the acute stress issues. However, things went a little sideways at Peter's residence. Actually, a lot sideways depending on how you fit into Peter's reality at the time, or didn't fit.

"Hh!" Diana snorted in frustrations, "Leave the ice-pack on. Sit."

"Really, I'm fi ..." Neal's words quickly trailed off with Diana's crossed arms and tilted head.

"I shoulda known better." She furrowed her brow.

"It's not your fault, Barrigan." The somber stern voice of Reese Hughes brought two heads around to the rear door of the Burke house.

"No, it's mine." Neal concurred. "_'You have to listen to me,' _was a poor choice of words."

Hughes bent lower and met Neal's diffident gaze. He gestured with the smallest jab of a finger. Neal obliged by shifting his head to the right.

"Yep. You should definitely keep the ice-pack on."

Neal was tempted to roll his eyes, but considering it was the first time the man had spoken with, to him, let alone acknowledge his presence, in the last eighteen hours, he simple put the ice-pack back in place.

Hughes stretched himself back up and placed his hands on his belt line, "Still amazed he didn't lay you out cold."

Neal flinched. _ It had only been reflexive speed that had dodged the fist aimed squarely at his face. Even at that Peter had caught him in the jaw, momentarily dazing him, before he reeled around to the right completely dodging Peter's lunge and exiting the bedroom with a speed akin to a jaguar. Diana snagged onto him before he fully closed the door and defensively stood between Peter and him. She blocked Peter's further advance with an upheld hand and continued assurances she'd handle it, him._

"_I thought I told you to arrest him." _

"_Why is he still in my home?" _

"_Peter please, I have this, I have him."_

Hughes reached into his pocket and held up the small key. He glared at it, then Neal.

"Your freedom is entirely dependant on Elizabeth's freedom." Hughes promised and handed the key to Jones. "Either of you lose him, I suggest you lose your way to the office too."

He walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs without another word.

Diana and Jones shared a knowing look. Jones removed the anklet from Neal, placing it on top of the fridge. He and Diana had been relegated to Caffrey and Burke duty, coordinating both men, knowing that together their teamwork was unparallelled, while at the same time keeping them out of trouble, and at times, out of each others way.

The next eighteen hours had become a chaotic, exhausting, traumatic roller-coaster ride with Neal ending up in Keller's sight lines. Mozzie of all people had ended the stand-off. Neal shouldn't have been surprised by that, he'd seen anger and then satisfaction flash in Mozzie's eyes. Neal had wondered if he'd pay himself the six mil bounty. Neal too, was sure when he'd seen the freight car loaded with the treasure, that it was short a few pieces, pieces that wouldn't be on the manifest, pieces that would be difficult to trace. He promised himself then and there that he'd never ask Mozzie about those suspicions.

The best part of the day had come in seeing El safe and sound. Keller for all his bravado was a gentleman with her. Keller had actually decked the guy that left a small bruise on her face, when manhandling out of the house. He had provided her all the essentials and repeatedly informed her his plan was foolproof - he'd escape with the treasure and she'd be unharmed. Keller hadn't escaped with the treasure, nor his life. El, as promised, was unharmed, and in remarkably good spirits.

Peter on the other hand had hit the proverbial wall again.

For Peter the world had narrowed to a single point of focus, Elizabeth Burke. He could only hear her voice, he felt only her touch, and only the soft sweet scent of her body filter into his conscience. It was El who moved him to the waiting paramedics, and who reasoned with him to let them check her. It was El, who bundled him into a waiting vehicle to take them home. A home she didn't feel so safe in, but where she needed to be with Peter. It was El, who rocked Peter in her arms, until exhaustion finally won them both over.

Peter would be home with her for several days. They talked and held each other. And moments, when she found herself alone, she talked to the other man who'd come to her rescue. The man that had stood between her husband and Keller, unarmed, and protectively moving so Keller had no clear shot at Peter. He did however have a clear shot at Neal. She thought Keller had shot Neal, when Neal reeled backwards and over Peter. It was Keller who went down and once again Neal was affording Peter as much protection as possible. In the end, El had been more shocked by Peter's hostility to Neal than anything else.

Neal finally knocked on the door. He'd been standing there, staring at it for nearly five minutes before finally bringing his hand up, only to put it down turn away and then stand there for another five minutes before tapping lightly on the door. The door open only slightly, white knuckles grasping the heavy wooden door and keeping it firmly in place.

"My home's no longer in your radius. The Marshals should be here shortly." Peter ground out.

The door slammed shut. Neal closed his eyes briefly, turned and sat on the top step. He held his fedora in his hands and turned it round and round. He waited.

The door opened again and he turned to look up at the soft, thoughtful expression of Elizabeth Burke. She came and sat beside him and leaned her head onto his shoulder. Slowly his head came down to press against her's. They waited.

Peter pulled back the curtains and glared at the back of Neal Caffrey. His wife was tucked up close to the man, her head resting on his shoulder, a hand lightly wrapped around an arm. He was furious. Elizabeth had stood behind him at their front door and then demanded he get out of her way. Then she had gone outside and sat beside Caffrey. The Marshals couldn't arrive soon enough. He waited, impatiently.

The Marshals didn't arrive. Jones did. He gave Neal a curt smile and nodded at Elizabeth. She and Neal stood. Neal went and stood at the curb, watching Jones and Elizabeth step inside the Burke house.

"Peter." Jones nodded in greeting and walked into the kitchen behind El. He retrieved something from the top of the fridge and exited as quick as he entered. Peter just remained standing in stunned silence, utterly baffled at why a tracker would be on top of his fridge. He jumped when El ran a hand down his arm.

"Really Peter, I'm the one who should be jumpy." He watched her, perplexed as she sat down with her morning coffee and opened the newspaper across the dining room table. "Are you getting a coffee and joining me or you planning on standing there all day?"

_'Huh?' _was all Peter could manage.

Elizabeth sighed and turned back to the paper. She would talk more with him when his temper cooled.

Jones walked down the steps, "I would have come and got it if you asked."

"I know." Neal gave him a slight twitch of a smile and reached for the tracker. As requested, and required, he'd shown-up at work over the last two days. With all the chaos, followed by reports and interviews _(interrogations?)_ he'd fallen exhausted into bed each night and promised himself he'd retrieve the tracker the next morning. He hadn't wanted to bother anyone at the office.

Jones held onto it briefly, "I'll drive you. You can't put it on until you hit the two mile radius."

"Yeah." Neal replied heavily. "If it's okay, I'd sooner walk. I know where the radius starts, ends."

Jones gripped Neal's shoulder as he turned to leave, "It will work out."

"Right." Neal tipped his head in a half _'yes-no'_.

Jones watched him walk down the tree lined street, oblivious to the sights and sounds around him. He looked up at the Burke house and wondered how much turmoil could fall into one man's life, self-generated and otherwise. He shook his head.

Peter returned to work several days after El's rescue. His head pounded and his stomach knotted and his own words echoed through his mind, _'Cowboy up, Burke.'_ Neal's chair sat empty, he wasn't positive if that was good or not. People smiled and nodded on his entry, with several offering affirmations of _'Good to see you, Peter.' _ He walked up to his office, paused and then headed to Hughes' office.

Neal leant over, next to Hughes at his desk. Hughes tapped his finger on the files in front of them and handed Neal his pen. Neal signed at each point Hughes indicated. He immediately halted and stood up on Peter's entry.

Peter's apprehension at returning to work, and overall frustration at not being able to recollect details from the past week, immediately welded itself into resentment at Neal's presence.

"Admission papers for prison?" He grumbled indignantly, glaring at Hughes and dismissing Neal altogether.

Hughes turned to Neal, "Can you give us a minute?"

Neal didn't need any prompting, he'd have left on Peter's entry but he was there at Hughes' beckoning. He couldn't have been more thankful for having the man release him so quickly from the room that had suddenly grown claustrophobic and uncomfortably hot. Neal skirted Peter, who continued to glare at Hughes and ignore him.

As he closed the door on his exit, he stopped short when Hughes called his name, his first name. He wasn't surprised by the order that followed. He closed the door with a definitive click. He walked into Peter's office and collected his fedora, he had dropped it there, in what had become his chair, on the way to Hughes office after receiving the two finger point. He gave Jones and Diana a _whatever _shrug and headed home.

An hour later, Diana sat across from Peter Burke. She inserted a flash drive in the laptop and spun it around for him. "Only Clinton, myself and Hughes." She stated matter-of-fact.

She watched his expression intently. Peter's face turned from anger to puzzlement, distress, and finally comprehension. He looked up at Diana.

"Everything! He gave you everything?"

"No Peter," Diana corrected, "He gave _you_ everything."


	3. Chapter 3

Neal sat at his kitchen table, hands pressed into his forehead, he stared absently at the table. He repeatedly drew in deep breaths, trying to steady his thoughts, trying to keep reality in check and wondering where he'd be in the next few days if things didn't settle out with Peter. Right now he was sure that wouldn't happen and had already started making _arrangements_.

He startled with the knock.

"It's open." He called without a thought as to who was coming through.

He ran his hands over his face, lost for a moment at the presence of the man standing in front of him. He stood, tipping his chair backwards in the process, he caught it, halting the chair's plummet to the floor. He stepped behind the chair, defensively separating himself even further from the man now standing quietly in his apartment. He ran his hand nervously along the top rail of the chair, then tapped his fingers casually against the wood rail, as though reassuring the chair _it_ was safe. He brought his eyes up, realizing how much his actions gave away his nervousness, and drove his hands into his pockets. He let out the breath he held, in a shaky huff.

"Peter."

"Neal."

Neal took an involuntary step back as Peter approached the table. Peter watched him cautiously and held up a hand. He then rolled what he held between thumb and finger and placed it carefully in the centre of the table.

"And?" Neal asked hesitantly.

"It's a flash drive." Nothing like stating the obvious, "It's a very interesting flash drive."

Neal shrugged.

"The back interview rooms at the FBI are all audio/video recorded automatically. Sometimes we capture confessions, sometimes information for investigative follow-up." Peter expected some change in Neal's expression, there was none. "The first file on the drive is follow-up, has some interesting clips from the surveillance cameras at Herald Towers. Seems their main system had a serious recording _failure _but not the external one running on a separate feed. One view shows a man, short in stature, rolling a rather sizable case down the street towards the entry and one of him exiting the rear, no case. A camera around the corner has even more interesting footage on it."

Neal stared at the flash drive then brought tired, heavy eyes up to meet Peter's.

Peter dropped his eyes, "I was hoping..."

"It wasn't me?" Neal finished. "It was."

Peter's surprise was evident in the snap up of his head.

Neal continued before Peter could interject, "The original Degas went back with all the treasure. The forgery is mine."

"Copy is yours."

Neal furrowed is brow, trying to discern Peter's intent.

"I think if we're going to talk Neal, everything should be up front and honest."

"Fine."

"Honest."

"I got that part, Peter."

"You haven't always."

"I've never outright lied to you."

"No, but prevaricate, equivocate."

Neal gave a nonchalant shrug, "It's the nature of the beast."

"And it's not easy to change one's nature, is it?"

"Not easy at all." Neal agreed. "What do you want from me, Peter?"

"Honest answers about the treasure and ..."

"Always the treasure." Neal sighed deeply.

"Neal..."

"I didn't steal the damn treasure, Peter. Hell, I never really went looking for it either. I got dragged into it with Kate and she died because of it. Honest enough for you?" Neal waved a hand angrily back-and-forth between them, "We nearly died because of it. ... Then Adler points a gun at me, set to pull the trigger and my ears are ringing and I thought ..., I thought ... . Then the explosion and you yelling at me, accusing me, without a moments hesitation. And after all that, you send Jones and run me on a polygraph for hours. Hours, over and over with the same questions. You still didn't believe me. You never once asked me to help you find the treasure, you only wanted to _prove I stole it._"

Neal had stepped forwarded and was driving a finger aggressively into the table. Peter watched aghast, he hadn't expect the outburst of anger. He'd hoped to have a civil conversation, to clear the air not cloud it with further hostility.

"You want to know what I did after the docks, Peter?" Neal continued, eyes burning intently, but Peter caught the redness, the slight glaze, when Neal had closed the distance between them. "I stood in a warehouse surrounded by the treasure. You remember that first feeling, I know you do, even with everything going on when we were on the U-boat, you felt it. The exhilaration of something so astounding, miraculous. It was intoxicating, absolutely intoxicating. Everything I'd ever wanted, ever dreamed of, right there. I could hold master pieces no one had seen in 70 years, appreciate every brush stroke, the composition, the light. Not to mention perfectly cut gems in settings of solid gold. It was overwhelming. Yet all the while I kept comparing it to my life, to all the things I have now that you can't put a price on. And then after all those hours and questions,... there was ..., there was ..."

"Mozzie."

"He'd been there so many times for me, ... but his life, ... his life isn't mine. I liked what was happening here. I liked the challenge, the results, people believing in me...but then... then there's you. Your trust meant everything. I didn't feel so alone but ..." Neal shook his head slowly, solemnly.

"When... when you're one of the only people I've ever trusted, Peter. That I knew had my best interests at heart. And then you're... you're..., at ever turn accusing me, threatening me, watching me, waiting for me to fail. For what so you can lock me back up? Put me away indefinitely?" Neal eyes narrowed and widened, almost rhythmically.

"Neal, I..."

"No Peter, you know what that does? It starts cutting into you, makes you wonder about your choices, doubting them, doubting yourself, until you're no longer sure which direction to take. So, you play all the cards you have, all at once, hoping fate will intervene. Fate can be cruel though Peter, and the real choice is whether you keep playing or walk away from the table. Aces, I had aces and walked away." Neal stared at Peter, then dropped his head down, his voice barely a whisper.

"I didn't want to gamble my life away. I made my choice, Peter. I knew there'd be consequences, but I never expected, ... not... I never meant to hurt you, or El, or anyone else. I just, ... I just wanted you to believe in me, believe I could change, make the right choice. I wanted to prove Kramer and everyone else wrong, show them you knew me better than I knew myself. That I hadn't let you down."

"I know." Peter sighed.

"What?" Neal was working so desperately to keep his emotions from careening out of control that he wasn't readying Peter. His words flowed over and around him but like water on hard ground, never sank in.

"Neal, I didn't come here to..."

"It's okay," Neal interrupted softly, absently watching the finger he traced across the table, "I understand. It's not like anyone else would take me on, and not now, not with everything that's happened. Diana and Clinton might but I couldn't stay in the office." He gave Peter a tight smile and a small half-hearted laugh. "Besides, they're good but I doubt they'd ever challenge me enough or suffer my antics for very long, not like..."

"Me."

"Not like you." Neal shrugged and stared through the open french doors into the night.

"I've already talked to June." Neal continue hesitantly. "She told me not to be so foolish, then told me to have faith, then gave me her lawyer's card. Offered to pay his fees. She figures I should be in witness protection. I tried to explain a Confidential Informant is afforded protection from testifying, so I'm never a witness, and don't need protecting. She says her lawyer is one of the best. It won't make any difference, I know our deal's done, and with the recorded evidence I gave you...," A shaky breath broke the monologue, "Maybe I ... you won't push for... . You know the city lights dance like jewels when ..." Neal closed his eyes and tipped his head back, a single tear stealing down his right cheek.

The silence echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the walls and buffeting against the two men standing alone, together.

"Neal?" Peter called his name, as if uncertain of the the other man's presence.

"I'm ready, Peter." Neal pulled in a long slow breath, "I was hoping for the weekend but... I won't cause any trouble. I never wanted to..."

"You done?"

"I'm sorry for everything, Peter. "

The anguish in Neal's eyes was enough to rend Peter's heart seven ways from Sunday. He took a deep breath, then held a hand up when Neal started to move toward the door. "No. _I'm_ not done yet."

Neal stopped, confusion evident in his expression.

"Are you listening?"

Neal gave a slight nod, albeit a little unsure.

"Neal, I want you to listen to me very carefully."

"Okay, I'm listening,"

Peter scowled.

"I'm listening."

Peter pointed at the flash drive. "The other file on the flash drive is of two friends. One friend, a younger man, sits for hours, holding the other, quietly just being there, refusing to leave his friend's side, without any consideration for the anguish he's just experienced himself. And all the while, never wavering, with no thought for himself. The younger man provides information on everything surrounding the treasure. Incriminating information that would ultimately seal his fate and send him back to prison. All digitally recorded in the back interview room at the the FBI nearly a week ago."

"I get it Peter, I'm going back to prison."

"Shut up, Neal! Listen." Peter nodded his head in a methodical yes motion, as Neal started to open his mouth again. He wanted Neal's full attention, but he also understood the apprehension Neal felt at the thought of returning to prison. For a young man, resigning himself to the reality of an eight by ten cell would be traumatic enough, for someone like Neal, with his passion and zeal for life, devastating. Yet he had.

"Listen." Peter repeated again slowly. "The rest isn't on the drive but apparently for hours more, about thirty-eight hours, that same young man never stopped. For some twenty of those hours, plus two unaccounted days, he was without a tracking anklet to legally tie him to anything, not that it would have ever really stopped him. At one point, he risks his own life to protect his partner and return his friend's loved one."

Peter stooped down to catch Neal's eye. Neal's hesitant blue eye's blinked in bewilderment at him.

"You with me?"

"Yes. I think I am."

"Neal, I didn't understand about Kate. I never should have said the things I did. It wasn't for me to decide if she was right for you. The right one, _your loved one_. She went missing and the only person truly looking for her was you. There were no legions of FBI agents swarming over her apartment looking for clues. No NYPD searching. No BOLOs desperately asking for assistance to locate. No team. Just you, desperately looking, hoping." Peter took a deep breath.

"I never gave you the leeway to _honestly_ look. Instead I brought the FBI and NYPD to take you, while you sat holding onto your one clue. Then I gave you that little shred of hope to keep looking. Only I didn't really. I just made the cage bigger, tied you in legalities and promises. I asked you to be patient, to wait in the dark. A dark that robs your soul, that shakes you to the core and leaves you feeling empty. I asked you to do that alone." Peter took another, shaky deep breath. He could barely bring himself to keep his eyes fixed on Neal.

"I didn't have to do that alone, I had a friend watching over me. He comforted me when I needed it. He took my anger when I needed to vent. He did whatever was asked of him, unconditionally." Peter wiped at his eyes, "My friend never let me down."

Neal took short raspy breaths and pressed his eyes shut, fearful that if he opened them some unknown reality would stream in and he'd loose the desperate battle to maintain some decorum. He trembled. Tears slowly meandered down his cheeks, ran along his jawline and melted into his neck. He could almost hear Kate's sweet laughter, the brush of her lips on his, the promise of blissful times together.

"I miss her." He whispered to the stillness around him.

"I know." Peter's voice - warm, forgiving - filled the emptiness. "_I know._"

A hand rested on Neal's shoulder, then cradled the back of his head and pulled him into a cautious hold. Tentative, unsure if the tension would uncoil like a spring wound to tight or release in a flood of unbridled emotion. Either way, it scared the hell out of Peter. Either way Peter wasn't about to let his friend deal with life alone, not again.

Peter could feel the shake of Neal's body, the short intakes of breath, the faltering attempts to gain control. Neal pulled away and stepped back from him.

"Sorry, I shouldn't ...," Neal clasped his hands behind his head and then pressed his elbows tight to his temples. "Damn it!" He spun around and strode onto the terrace.

The wind had picked up and the heavy moisture in the air threatened rain. Neal shivered. He leant against the concrete parapet and crossed his arms over the top cap. He rested his chin in the crux of his arms and focused on some unknown distant point.

Peter walked out to stand hesitantly beside him. They stood in silence for several minutes. The low clouds reflected the ambient light of the city, casting a warm glow, that softened the edges of the buildings surrounding them. Lights twinkled and the noise of the city filtered through the thick night air.

"I'm going to miss this." Neal sighed.

"It's some view." Peter agreed, then continued quietly. "I spent several hours today speaking with Doctor Zaidi."

Neal suddenly turned to face him, eyes flashing anger, then distress, "That's not on..."

"Neal. No." Peter shook his head adamantly, "Diana overrode the video recording process about two minutes after Zaidi's arrival. She turned the audio feed off too. Everything you said was confidential."

Neal scowled at Peter.

"Neal, I'm not sure who Diana called Zaidi for, you or me, or both. I do know you ended up talking to him on and off for nearly two hours and I know I don't remember a damn bit of it, at least not now." Peter answered Neal's questioning look. "The good doctor says some of the memory will return but other things never got into short term memory, so there's no way of recalling memory that was never held. It's kinda like this..."

Peter held out a closed hand and waited for Neal. He dropped the flash drive into Neal's outstretched hand. Neal stared at it dumbfounded. Glassy blue eyes finally rose to meet his own.

"I lied." Neal stated bluntly, then dropped his eyes. "I'm not ready. I can't... prison. I'll never be ready."

"Who would be?" Peter chortled. He gripped Neal's shoulder and jostled him. "That drive is the only one in existence. Diana and Jones canvassed the area around the Herald Towers and any footage went onto that special little drive provided by a certain _femme fatale _of the computer underground. Seems when you download info, it sends a reverse execute message and the info deletes itself from the original source."

"But the..."

"Treasure? You mean the treasure you helped recovered, along with stopping Keller, permanently. You also helped affect the arrest of Keller's accomplices. You know they keep trying to make deals and implicate you. Diana broke into hysterics during one interview, I really am not looking forwarded to explaining that recording to the D.A."

Neal continued to stare at Peter in stark disbelief.

"I'm not sure about your Degas. We may have to hang onto the _copy_ until Elliot Richmond's trial is complete. Still it did help bring an arms dealer down and we recovered several other stolen art pieces. I think Hughes might be willing to let you have it back, once it's marked as a copy of course. Maybe will send it to Kramer for his office." Peter raised his eyebrows with a wry smile.

"We even cleared Rusty, with the proviso that the release was on your word but he's never to have contact with you unless it's official. Funny, there wasn't the least argument at that, actually he made some comment about never wanting to cross paths with you again." Peter cocked his head to the side. "Neal, it would probably be good if you tried breathing."

"I'm not?" Neal finally proffered, breathless.

"I'm not breaking my team up. Not while it's one of the best in the country. I might have lost it for a bit but I'm not delusional, I know a good thing when I'm looking at it." Warm brown eyes found and held crystal blue ones.

"I'm not?"

"No Neal, you are _not_ going to prison. Besides, it would be hard to get you to dinner Saturday if you're in prison. Breath."

"Breathing."

"Good, wait here."

Peter went back inside and returned moments later.

"Give me the drive?"

"But..."

"You'll have to forgive me on this one but I just don't trust you right now."

Peter held his hand out and Neal reluctantly placed it in Peter's hand, unsure of why the conversation had suddenly turned. Then his mouth gaped open, as Peter placed the drive on the parapet and proceed to beat the thing into oblivion with the small hammer he'd found in a kitchen draw. He handed Neal the hammer, brushed what was left into his left hand, and deposited it into one of the large flower urns.

"Hope it doesn't kill June's flowers?" Peter smirked, "But I'm sure they're a little less costly than her lawyer."

"She'll forgive you." Neal smiled for the first time since Peter had walked in.

"Anyway, I need to head home, El will no doubt want confirmation you'll be there for Saturday dinner. So you're aware, Jones, Diana and Hughes will be there. Others were invited but are apparently on a 'takeout' list." Peter shrugged. "Are we good?"

"We're good." Neal still looked exhausted but the anguish and anxiety had vanished.

Peter was nearly at the apartment door when he turned to face Neal. "We all have to make choices, Neal. It's how you stand by those choices, and the people in your life, that matters. I'd prefer to stand with you, than chase you, Neal." Peter hesitated, as smile worked it's way across his face, "You do realize that means you're expected at work first thing Monday morning, with me?"

Then Peter's eyes twinkled with a mischief usually reserved for Neal's _torment _of him. "Almost forgot, Hughes says he's not helping you with anymore of your reports, something about _unusual _procedures and people."

Peter was out the door and gone before the Monday morning part settled into Neal's consciousness.

And, Neal Caffrey stood alone in the studio apartment, his room. The one with an incredible New York skyline. The one with an open door, that friends could walk through, that he could walk in-and-out of at will. The one with the terrace, _and great coffee_, where he could feel the sun, and wind and rain on his face. The one he now called home.

* * *

><p>Officially, this makes for my first <span>complete<span> FanFic. Thank you for reading. Any suggestions, guidance, comments, likes, dislikes are all appreciated, so don't hesitate to send me a message or review. Cheers CCG.


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